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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25475497">The escapist</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/under_stars/pseuds/under_stars'>under_stars</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Ivar/Reader Various Works [5]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Vikings (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Abusive Relationship, Angst, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, F/M, Implied/Referenced Sexual Harassment, Master/Slave, Rape/Non-con Elements, Reader-Insert, Slavery, Song: The Escapist (Nightwish), Sort of a Songfic, Suicidal Thoughts, Violence, contemplation of infanticide, dark ivar</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 12:08:19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,887</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25475497</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/under_stars/pseuds/under_stars</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A nightingale in a golden cage<br/>That's me locked inside reality's maze<br/>Can someone make my heavy heart light<br/>Come undone, bring me back to life<br/>It all starts with a lullaby</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ivar (Vikings)/Reader, Ivar (Vikings)/You</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Ivar/Reader Various Works [5]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1741789</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>84</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The escapist</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>The song in the summary and in this work is called 'The escapist' by the band 'Nightwish'.</p><p>Warning: This work is rather grim. The reader-insert character is subject to physical and sexual abuse and contemplates suicide and infanticide. Reader discretion is advised.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>You stared at the moving, smelly bundle in your arms. Blue eyes stared back at you, soft skin against yours. Only that yours was not soft but hardened by endless work and years of misery. The wind blew cold and merciless around you as you sat on a rock next to the shore. Your hair, tangled and unwashed, joined the wind in its violent blowing, but you remained motionless. You still stared at what your arms were holding.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>And as much as you fought against it, your stare was cold. Indifferent. Almost apathetic.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Your baby started crying. You kept staring at it, questioning whether you should even bother trying to calm it down. In a few minutes it would start wailing again, no matter what you did. And the truth was, you felt the same way. To begin wailing and never cease.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Eventually, you decided you preferred the sole rhythmic sound of the waves crushing against the sand to your baby’s keening-like crying. Expressionless, you begun rocking it gently, internally begging it to stop. You were so tired, so utterly exhausted your body could barely support itself, let alone another. You had only given birth to him the night before. Your body was weak and your soul was a shipwreck. Abandoned and grim. Tragic.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Your rocking him was no help at all, he kept crying. His loud squeals needed to be silenced, you could not bear them, your head hurt, your bones ached. So you did, although with a heavy heart and a weary body, what any mother would do in your place. You sang a lullaby for him.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>A nightingale in a golden cage<br/>
That's me locked inside reality's maze<br/>
Come someone make my heavy heart light<br/>
Come undone, bring me back to life<br/>
It all starts with a lullaby</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>It was the only lullaby you knew. It was in your native tongue, not in Norse. You were a Saxon.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Journey homeward bound<br/>
A sound of a dolphin calling<br/>
Tearing off the mask of man<br/>
The tower, my sole guide</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>And it was the only thing you remembered of your mother. The only thing you remembered from your past life, when you had been free. It was your only connection with the past, along with your language. A lullaby. A song of woe.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>This is who I am<br/>
Escapist, paradise seeker<br/>
Farewell, now time to fly<br/>
Out of sight, out of time, away from all lies</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Your baby, soothed by your singing, resorted to low whining and then stopped ultimately. He bobbed his head to the side and fell asleep immediately. The world was silent again, only water against sand and rock was heard, your voice having faded as abruptly as it had come. You felt tears prick your eyes and you let them stream down your cheeks, free, uncontrolled. But you were not crying for your baby, no, not for him. It was you. You were crying for yourself. For your pain.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>You did not want your own baby, how could you? It sounded harsh and heartless, but that was what you felt and soundlessly grieved for. This helpless, innocent little baby was forced in and out of you by the tragedy of your fate. And now you could not be rid of him. You could not bring yourself to kill this unsuspecting, small being for fear of the gods. For fear of his father. For fear of yourself.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>You pitied your son. But you pitied your own self a lot more.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>You raised your head to stare blankly in front of you, your tears dried. You watched the unending sea that stretched and stretched forward, presumably into the unknown. But you knew where it led. It led back to you home. How you longed for home.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>You wondered whether you should throw yourself at the sea and be done with it. Drowning would be a quick and relatively painless death. Your baby could go down with you. You could both vanish, become one with the water. It was not the first time you had contemplated doing such a thing. Ending your life. But you could never do it. You wish you could. But you were scared of death.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>And deep down you wanted to live.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Y/N!”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The rough voice of your master and ‘lover’ reached your ears, an ominous bell. You did not turn to face him, memories flooding you, suffocating you.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Your earliest memory was you being snatched from your mother’s arms, while she was being raped. Her desperate cries, burning wood, axes; you could still hear, smell and see everything so clearly it was as though it had happened yesterday. Your village in England had been under attack by northmen. Vikings. Your current captors. You had been just a child then, no more than six years old.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The thing is that you should be able to recall things from your life before your capture, you had been old enough then. But somehow, no matter how hard you tried, you were unable to. You ought to remember your village, your family, your own mother, but you couldn’t. Your only connection to that distant, past life were snippets of your mother cradling you in her thin arms and singing you the melancholic lullaby you had just sang to your son. That and the saxon tongue. Oddly enough, you could still speak it, despite the fact you had not practiced it for years. For so many years. You were so much older now.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Your childhood, your life had halted when you had been six years old. Afterwards, something else had begun. Hell, it had been hell. It still was.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Give me my son.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>You looked up to face the owner of the voice. In front of you stood a muscular man, dressed in heavy armour and leaning on two metal crutches. Light blue eyes burned into your soul. A hard visage. You shivered.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>It was Ivar the Boneless, the man that owned you. A ruthless, bloodlust Viking, a mad warrior. You had watched him grow up. You were his parents’ slave, among many others. And when he had grown up enough to have his own thrall, he had claimed you. Obviously, you had had no choice in the matter. Ever since that day you had been his.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>You handed him the baby, <em>his</em> son as he had called him. He took him in arms, clumsily but tenderly, which surprised you. He was not a gentle man. But he was holding his newly-born son, the one he had wanted so much. You could see his eyes glint in the wan afternoon light. He smiled widely and genuinely, you could see it. He held his son for a while and then turned to you, handing him back. He eyed you intently, as if he was expecting something from you. You offered him a ghost of a smile. You knew that was what he wanted. After so many years with him you could read him like an open book, although you wished you didn’t.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Are you in pain?”, he asked. His tone was not warm nor caring.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“No” It was a lie, but what you truly felt did not actually matter.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The baby jerked his tiny foot in his sleep and Ivar glanced at him affectionately.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“His name will be Baldur.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>You did not answer. It was not a question.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Y/N”, he called for your attention and bent down to kiss you. You let him, like always. His kisses were rough and passionate, almost ferocious, like everything he did in life. Yours were mere reflective responses. You had no passion in you. You felt empty. The years had made you this way.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Once he had had enough, he released you and straightened himself. The violent blowing of the wind had ceased, a gentle breeze had taken its place. You preferred the former. It matched your wrecked soul.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“We are going back”, Ivar spoke and grabbed your forearm to pull you up. You both walked in silence towards the great hall. People bowed to him in your way, others eyed the sleeping baby in your arms with interest and composed awe. No one really paid any attention to you. You were just a slave who happened to be owned by a Viking leader. There was nothing unusual in that.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Once you were close to his rooms, Ivar spoke to you again.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Hand Baldur to a maid and then come find me in my bedroom.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Baldur. You already hated that name. You knew it was the name of a norse god. When you and the rest of the Saxon slaves had arrived in Kattegat, you had been forced to denounce your faith and were ordered to never speak your own tongue again. You would worship the northmen’s gods and speak the northmen’s language. They owned you after all.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>You loathed your new gods. You abhorred paganism. You still believed, although secretly, in your own gracious God, in his power, in his kindness. But maybe your faith was not strong enough. He would not help you, no matter the pleading prayers you sent to Him every single day.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>But it did not matter that your child would be named after a pagan god. He would grow to become a heathen and a Viking, whether you liked it or not. He would be taught to hate and slay and enslave Christians, unaware that such blood ran in his veins. You shrugged. Maybe it was better this way. He would grow to become something so different from you that you would not have to <em>care</em> for him. At the end of the day, he was a just heathen’s baby. You were simply the deliverer.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>A fair-headed maid, who seemed to be no younger than you, took Baldur in her arms, looking absolutely petrified. You understood her fear. It was the King’s son and if the slightest thing happened to him, she would pay with her life.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“What shall I do with him?”, she asked, her voice filled with anxiety.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know”, you answered quietly. “Let him sleep. Feed him when he wakes up. Clean up his dung.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“That’s all?”, the maid eyed you with an expression of uncertainty.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Of course. What else could there be?”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>What else indeed? He was just a baby. Babies simply exist.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>You headed to Ivar’s room. He had been uncharacteristically gentle this past few hours; it was all thanks to the baby's birth. When you entered the room, you knew he would turn back to his cold, wrathful self. Slaves should not be treated kindly. You never have been. A shiver run up your spine and you shook the upcoming torrent of ghastly memories away.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>You took a deep breath and knocked on the door.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Come in”, his muffled voice sounded from inside. He had been waiting.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>You stepped into the darkness.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>…………</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>You had heard from other slaves that the Ragnarssons were notorious lovers, so good at making love. Some of them would practically give away everything for a moment with these men. You could not understand such a delirium. What enjoyment could be derived from having sex? From whoever it came, it always hurt and marked your body, leaving it trembling and withering.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>You were lying in Ivar’s bed, immobile, letting him ravage you. He bit and licked and kissed every part of you, leaving only pain and shudder in his wake. He groaned and pushed his length into you so forcefully you could not repress the whimper-like moan that made its way to your lips. He glanced at you for a moment, surprised that you would even make the slightest of sounds. You usually went through sex with lips and fists tightened. He thrust into you again, even harder than last time, and you closed your eyes shut to shake the horrible feeling of your burning core away.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>You let your mind travel far. Far from Ivar and the heathens and the utter despair of daily life. If your body could not, then the mind would have to suffice. You imagined yourself floating at the sea, an empty bag of skin, surrounded by hungry fish and seaweed. Dead but freed. You pictured yourself alone in an unending meadow, flowers all around you, in your chest and whole body. Their sick-sweet smell lulling you to sleep. Dead but freed. How you wished it would happen. But you did not dare make it a reality.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Ivar let out a sonorous moan as his seed was released into you. Your repressed the urge to grunt in discomfort. He wanted to give you more babies. You did not want more. He wanted many sons, to carry on his legacy, his cruelty. You wished you had died during childbirth. Maybe you would in the future. Now that was something to hope for.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Hope. What an empty, useless word.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The storm was coming. Ivar was done making ‘love’ to you. Now anger would slip inside his mind and resonate within him. He would break. And then he would break you for good measure.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Did you enjoy it?”, you heard him ask.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>He was referring to what he had just done to you.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Yes”, you did not bother sounding truthful. He would fly into a rage either way.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“It’s not true. You never do”, his face darkened. You waited. By now all this was a routine. It was yours and his secret ritual. For years. Ever since they first time you two had had sex. Even back then, you had not been a virgin for many a year. You had been well acquainted with the gruesome union of the bodies and the pain it caused yours.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Why? Why do you never enjoy it?”, his expression twisted with anger.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Time to dance.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>He grabbed a handful of your hair and threw you off the bed. You fell down with a thud, but no sound fell from your lips. Your lack of reaction infuriated him even more. It always did. He reached for his metal crutch and brought it down to hit you. Metal against your skin, bitter anger against your skin, nothing was new to you. You had grown so used to this designated dance of violence, that the pain did not feel alien at all, rather it felt right. The bruises, the aftermath, had integrated with your flesh. Over the years, you and the bruises and the pain had become one.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"Bitch!”, he barked as the crutch descended again and again on your body. A hit found your stomach but you did not wince. “You are nothing! Nothing but filth, a toy for me to play with! You should feel privileged I have kept you all these years! You should and will enjoy it!”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>After he was done beating you blindly, he threw the crutch away and pulled you up with his strong arms. He was immensely strong; his arms had the strength his legs lacked. It would go a long way towards nothing to try and struggle out of his grasp. Not that you ever did. You had realized that struggling against a Viking would be fruitless from a very young age. Many slaves had. You remembered that first time so vividly it sickened you. Blood and struggle. So much blood. So many tears. A northman. And the beginning of an internal pain that had never stopped ever since.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>His hand moved and squeezed your bum so hard this time you gave a stifled scream.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“That’s my woman”, Ivar whispered, satisfied at your rare display of reaction, and buried his face at the crook of your neck. Goosebumps formed on your skin but not at the sensation. Fear took hold of the reins in your mind. You tried desperately to ignore it but it would not go away, stubbornly clutching at your heart. Why were you afraid? There was nothing new he could do to you. You had been through everything. Through <em>hell</em> itself.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Your lower lip was bleeding. Had he hit you in the face? You had not felt it.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>You wanted to leave, to vanish in thin air, to disappear. You felt exhausted. Your body was numb. You needed some sleep. An hour at least. Then he could continue to spit his wrath and misery at you. You needed to escape reality, if only for a little bit.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Before you could stop yourself, you spoke.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Ivar.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>He jerked his head upwards and looked you straight in the eyes, evidently surprised. You had never talked to him at will.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“What is it?”, his voice was chillingly low. Untypical of him.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“I…”, your momentary courage deserted you, your mind itself went numb. You needed to find a plausible excuse to leave. What a fool you were, slaves do not make requests. They only obey and suffer.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Journey homeward bound<br/>
A sound of a dolphin calling</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>Your own voice echoed in your mind. And, as though it were a miracle, you heard yourself speak again. And it was steady. Audible. Placid.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“I need to see my baby. My baby, he needs feeding.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“The maid is taking care of him.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“I am his mother. He is but a newborn. He needs me.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>To your great surprise, Ivar gave the smallest of nods. “Of course”, he said in a faintly understanding tone.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>You made a move to get up but he pulled you back. He rested a calloused hand on your haggard face. His blue eyes swam in your (E/C) ones.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Y/N”, he whispered after a while, “don’t ever leave me. Don’t ever leave.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Yes”, you answered tiredly. Why was he being like this? Could he not be cold and angry like always? Why did he suddenly have to be so oddly…sentimental?</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Tearing off the mask of man<br/>
<br/>
</em>
</p><p> </p><p>The lullaby returned and rang in your head. You shook it away.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Do you promise to never leave me?”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Was that a tremble in his voice? No, it must have been your imagination.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Yes, I do.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Even if you denied the promise, you both knew you could never <em>ever</em> leave this place. You were at his mercy. His to love, to free, to kill, to play with. You were a slave. And slaves do not escape.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>He kissed you. And, as the well-worn ritual dictated, you kissed him back.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>…………..</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>A month passed. Your baby boy grew and became chubbier by the day, well-fed by your milk and the attention he was being given. Ivar never changed, he was always immersed in his strategic plans and disputes with his brothers. He was always the same bad-tempered, erratic man that tortured your mind and body but still claimed he needed you. Outwardly it was all the same for you as well. Your body bore the same scars and bruises and your face wore the same apathetic expression. But internally something <em>had</em> changed.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The lullaby. It had stirred something within you. The seed of quiet, desperate rebellion had been planted within you by the melancholic melody and brooding lyrics of the song. The more you replayed it in your mind, the more the lyrics took a meaning that touched a chord in your heart that long seemed forgotten.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Not hope. But a desperate insatiable longing, an itch you could not suppress. The desire to escape. And live.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>You were perfectly aware that there was no way for you to be freed, but that could not stop your inner turmoil from being awakened.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>It became even more difficult by the day to withstand the cruelty of everyday life. To go through that damned ‘ritual’ of ‘love’ and violence. Years before you had taught yourself to endure everything that happened to your body, stifling any sign of rebellion. It was your fate to forever be a slave. No one opposes their fate.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>But the more you surreptitiously sang the lullaby to your son, the more memories begun to make themselves visible in the abyss of your mind. As the days passed, you remembered. Details from your past life. That distant, untouchable life you thought you had forgotten. You had not forgotten. The memories had just been repressed by trauma; your capture.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Had you had siblings back then? Yes. A boy and a girl. Baby twins. Had your family been wealthy? Yes. You had been the daughter of an earl. Did your parents love you? Yes. You remembered them scooping you up in their arms and swinging you around. Had you been happy? You probably had been.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>You could even slightly recall their faces, albeit their images were a little blurry. What you could not recall was the rest of your family’s demise that fateful day of the raid, but you knew that your mother had died at the boat journey towards Kattegat. Lucky woman. She had died before she could become a slave. She had left you behind. And you had left home behind.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Home, home, home. Wherever your village was- if it still existed-, you wanted, you dreamed to go back there. You could not take this torture any longer. You would now do <em>anything</em> to go back. Anything.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>You were desperate, so very desperate. And more miserable than ever. Because now you could no longer tolerate the violence and the torture and the pain. Before, you had schooled yourself into succumbing to your fate, you had almost come to embrace it in a strange sick way.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>This is who I am<br/>
Escapist, paradise seeker</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>But not now. You abhorred the hellish life you led. You sought your own imagined version of paradise.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>And paradise was home.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>…………</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>You cradled your son in your arms. Your healthy little boy giggled at your movements and funny faces you made. Over the course of several months he had grown and even some teeth had started coming out. He was a well-fed baby with rosy round cheeks and bright blue eyes that provided the only light in the grim life you led.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>And what an invigorating light it was. You had tried so hard not to love him. Not to care for him, to hate him. But every time you went to him, his face would brighten and he would extend his chubby hands in your direction, beckoning you to come closer. He recognized you every time. And always seemed so happy to see you.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>He had won your heart. You could no longer hold yourself back, you began to freely pour your love on him, every ounce that had been left in your body. He was not just a heathen’s baby. He was the son of an earl’s daughter. You were his <em>mother</em>. And you wanted a better life for him as much as you wanted it for yourself.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>It did not matter that he was a king’s son. He was a Saxon too. An heir to an earldom. And you would not let him suffer a lifetime of brutality, war and paganism. You would not <em>allow</em> it.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“M-móðir”, your son repeated the only word he could say. It meant mother in norse. He was being taught norse by maids and his father, who had been immeasurably disappointed that his son's first word had not been faðir. It meant father.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“No!”, you laughed. Only your sweet boy could make you laugh. And you had not laughed genuinely ever since you were six.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>You cast a glance at your surroundings to make sure no one was watching.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Mother! It’s me!”, you corrected your son, “Say it with me, sweet one. Mo-ther!”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>You proceeded to watch your son try to reproduce the strange word he had just heard.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Maa-eer”, he tried with his small mouth. You burst into laughter but stopped immediately when you spotted a maid approaching you two.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Say faðir!”, you said rather loudly, so the maid could hear. “Faðir!”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Time to play the typical performance. You adopted your usual dispirited expression.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The maid reached you two. She was a carrying a straw basket and was smiling widely.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“How is the little prince?”, she asked you and you answered that he was very well.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Little Baldur has grown so much! It seems like yesterday I held him in my arms as a newborn!”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>You simply nodded at her. You never called your son Baldur. You had never <em>agreed</em> on that name.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“And how are you, (Y/N)?”, the maid went on. “You look sick and so frightfully pale!”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>You knew you looked sick. The immense worry was eating you inside out; you had grown thinner, your face had become even gaunter. But you did not mind. The only thing you cared about was finding your chance to escape. You kept your eyes wide open for that precious opportunity and that was the only thing that mattered to you now. That and your son.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“King Ivar is worried about you.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>At that you raised your head to look at her, taken aback. “Worried about <em>me</em>?”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The maid sighed. “Can I sit down for a bit, (Y/N)?”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>You made a place for her on the bench you were sitting and indicated she could join you. Your son squealed, excited at the new addition in your company.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Listen, (Y/N)”, the maid began in a low voice, “I know of your…tough relationship with the king. What he did to you for years…it’s horrible. But, lately, I have noticed- not intentionally of course- that his behaviour towards you has started to change.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>You raised a questioning eyebrow, beckoning her to explain.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“He allows you to stay with Baldur much more often than he would in the past. He wants you to be around all the time. And you must have noticed that he does not speak <em>harshly</em> to you anymore… Don’t tell me you have not noticed, (Y/N).”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Oh. The truth is you had noticed all these things, but you had just dismissed them as mere creations of your imagination. You thought you had imagined the fact that he rarely beat you anymore. There was no way that Ivar had started to <em>change</em>. But now you had proof. This maid- and possibly others as well- had seen it happen.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The maid took a deep breath. “I cannot be sure of course, but I think- yes, I really do think so- that he has started to fall in <em>love</em> with you…”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Your son made an incoherent sound, as you abruptly sat up.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know”, you said bleakly to the maid and bolted off the very next moment in complete shock.  “I don’t know”, you whispered, this time to yourself. You really didn’t.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The next few days you observed Ivar closely. How he talked to you, what he told you, what he allowed you to do. And to your complete and utter <em>horror</em>, he really did seem <em>softer</em> in a way. He would play with his son for hours and would allow you to be with them. He talked to you about his strategic plans and, on some occasions, even asked for your opinion. More often than not, he would remind you of your promise to never leave him, as if you <em>could</em> actually leave whenever you wished. Even when he made ‘love’ to you his every movement was slower, a tad gentler.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The sky could have fallen at your feet and you would not have been more astonished.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Perhaps he had just started to get tired of you. So tired, in fact, that his angry attention neglected you. He still hit you from time to time in sparks of rage, but his face afterwards would always be painted by a strange expression. Not guilt exactly. But regret and hesitation, yes.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>When you expressed your thoughts to the maid that had opened your eyes that day, she insisted that these were signs of love. You did not know if you believed her.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>There was one thing you did know; that your <em>anger</em> knew no end. You had not suffered so many years of torture and abuse, so he could fall in love with you just because you had borne him a son. You did not <em>need</em> his love. He was a monster, like the rest of his people. He- they- had made you suffer. And he wanted to make your son a monster as well. <em>No</em>. You would not let that happen.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>What is love anyway? It is just a sentiment. Sentiments come and go.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>And anger always prevails in the end.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>…………</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Ivar handed you your son carefully and watched you intently as you bounced him on your knees. You felt uncomfortable under his scrutinizing gaze and the fact that you felt sick with apprehension was no help at all.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Are you well?”, Ivar questioned you, perceiving your discomfort- he had always been an astute observer. You simply nodded in response.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Upon hearing his father’s voice, your son pointed at him with his stubby finger and exclaimed “Faðir!”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Ivar smirked at his son momentarily and then turned back to you.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“You are pale. Why?”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“I am always pale”, you said tightly.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Yes, right”, Ivar sighed and licked his lips. “Saxon war bands have been scouted near Kattegat. I have to take care of that problem”, he said carelessly.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Your hold on your son’s forearm tightened. He had obviously forgotten the fact you were a Saxon. Why else mention such a thing?</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Yes”, you said obediently. A pause occurred.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“(Y/N)”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The sudden intensity of his voice caused you to look up in alarm.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“I…(Y/N)…I think I love you”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>His voice traveled in your mind, went through your body, passed by your heart, but eventually drifted away. These words were weak. They meant nothing to you.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Thank you, my king”, you said coldly.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Ivar opened his mouth to say something but your son’s voice interrupted him before he could begin.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Maa! Mother!”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Your eyes widened in pure terror. Cold sweat washed you over as you froze in your seat, not daring to face <em>him</em>.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“(Y/N)”, Ivar’s voice sounded so intimidating you flinched. “Look at me.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>You didn’t. You had been rendered immobile by your fear.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Look at me now!”, he yowled. You began trembling but managed to obey him. His face had darkened. His stare was deathly. Your son, as if feeling the gravity of the situation, had plunged in silence. A repulsive aroma of ire lingered in the air.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“What did he say?”, Ivar asked slowly. You had both heard it. There was no point in denying it.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Mother.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Before you had even spoken the whole word he had grabbed you and yanked you off your seat. You tumbled to the ground and your son, who had gone down with you, begun crying loudly. You were too panicked to even react.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“You have been teaching him saxon behind my back!”, Ivar yelled at the top of his voice. He was completely overcome by rage; you could see the fire that burned in his eyes, the veins that pumped in his forehead. In that moment you knew he <em>hated</em> you. And you hated him as well.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Bitch!”, he yelled viciously.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>He began beating you with complete fury. He was striking blindly in his anger, both you and your poor boy, who was screeching and crying like mad. And this time, stricken by fear for yours and your son’s life, you fought back. You kicked and scratched like a cat, in a desperate effort to defend two lives. You had betrayed him; his soul was a raging fire. You knew you would have to pay.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>It was a battle of the bodies. And he was- naturally- stronger. Quicker. He was attacking like mad. Perhaps he was maddened- in that moment. Men are crazed in battle.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>He pinned you both in a corner. Your entire body was shaking like it never had before, a violent earthquake stemming from your undiluted fear. Blood coated your face. You were screaming at the top of your lungs.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>You could only watch as Ivar produced a recently-sharpened knife from his belt and raised his hand in the air. The metal blade gleamed menacingly in the darkening room.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“No!”, you cried out, “Please!”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Pweese!”, your son tried to copy you. He was so frightened, poor little innocent baby. He did not deserve this, none of it. It was all your fault. Though you did not deserve this either. The world was against you. Against you and your dreams.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Ivar would not listen. He was possessed. This was the end. He gave an incoherent war cry as he brought the blade down with force. You hugged your son tightly and closed your eyes shut, waiting for the impact. You could already feel the blood, the sting of the wound, the bells of death were ringing…but it never came.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Someone burst the door open.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“My king, the Saxons! They are raiding us! They have broken into the village!”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Ivar turned to face the fretting warrior. His face was twisted. Not with anger, not with shock, not with anything. Just twisted.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“You fools! Did you not defend the ramparts?”, he howled like wolf.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“My king, they took us by surprise! They are so many! We need you!”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Fuck! Gather as many men as you can. Let’s fight like Vikings!”, Ivar barked. He shot you one hateful burning look, spat on the ground and followed the young warrior outside.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>You shrunk in the corner, in a futile attempt to process what had just happened. Your body was still quivering vigorously. Tears were sliding down your cheeks, an endless waterfall. You stared emptily in front of you, your brain unable to function.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Ma? Maaa-ther?”, your son’s small voice brought you back to earth. He prodded your arm and whimpered. Poor boy.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>You looked down on his face. You were met with his warm blue eyes, so innocent and sweet. You ran your fingers through his (H/C) hair tenderly, as your tears landed on his soft head. You embraced him lovingly and began sobbing, no, wailing. All your anger, sadness, fear and pain flew out of you, in a torrent of tears and laments. Your son, seeing his mother in such a state, began crying as well.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>You cried with him, until there was not a drop left within you. You let it all out, you cursed and lamented and wailed like there was no tomorrow. Was there? Yes. There would be if you acted quickly.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Once you were done, you wiped your face with the sleeve of your dress. You did the same to your son, inhaled and exhaled deeply. You glanced at your now red-stained sleeve and grimaced. Your body ached all over, but curiously, your heart hammered strongly in your chest.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Only then did you hear the violent uproar coming from outside. You sprang to the nearest window and what you saw left you stunned.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>A feeling of intense familiarity hit you.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Fire, aggression, warriors, frightened women and children; a hellish uproar. It was a raid. The streets were flooded with warriors; Saxons against Vikings, a battle to the death. You watched them groan and growl and spill blood to the ground. None of it shocked you, though. You had been through this before.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>You stared at the direction of the great hall and watched as two Saxons cornered a woman who was shrieking for mercy. A third one ripped a baby from her arms. You had been through this before as well.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>And then it dawned on you.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Your life had come full circle. Last time you had experienced this- a raid- you had been taken away from home. Now your countrymen had returned to bring you back. It was fate. The <em>opportunity</em> you had been looking for.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>You had to think clearly- and fast. You did not have much time; sooner or later the foray would end and Ivar would return angrier than ever.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>You left the window and rushed back to your son. You kissed him on both cheeks and brought him to your chest. Then you grabbed a thick woolen sheet that had fallen on the ground and your wrapped it around your chest, tying it as tightly as you could so your son would be secure under it. The next thing you did was to skim through the contents of a wooden chest- you were in Ivar’s room- to find a light cloak that would permit you to pass unnoticeable through the violent commotion. When you at last found a good one, you put it on quickly, stuffed whatever gold you could find in the pockets of your dress and, after making sure your son was well protected under the layers of clothing, you stormed outside.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Your plan was to make it to the ramparts safe. The raiders had already broke into Kattegat so no wild battle would be occurring there. Once you made it there, you would have to find a small place to hide until the raid was over and the remaining Saxons were chased out of the village. And you were certain the raid would be successful. You could just <em>feel</em> it. Your blood- pure Saxon blood- was boiling.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>How would you find the ramparts? You had never been permitted to walk around Kattegat, hell, you were rarely ever allowed to go out, so your knowledge of the roads was limited, if not non-existent.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>You noticed smoke arising from the southern part of the village and, as you drew closer, realized that the entire front of the village was on fire. Scarlet flames leapt and burnt wood and metal with fury. These were the ramparts. You would have to follow the fire to reach them.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>The tower, my sole guide</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Your son’s whimpering sounded from under the cloths. You snaked your hands around him.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Patience, my love”, you whispered, “It will all be over soon. We will go through this together. We will go home together.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>…………….</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>By the time you had arrived at the ramparts the foray had been over. The northmen had been taken by surprise and the Saxons had clearly been well prepared. The fire had now expanded and wounded warriors and shield-maidens were lying on the streets. Saxons were hopping on horses and chariots with their trophies; gold, weapons and slaves.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Utter chaos. Exactly what you needed.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>You waited until a horde of Saxons passed through the gates so you could follow them. You could pretend you were one of the captured women. As you prepared yourself for a mad dash towards them, you felt a pair of eyes fixed on your back. You already knew who it was.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>You turned your head towards the direction of the falling fortifications to meet his deep blue gaze. A twisted bitter face, an expression of surprise and…was that despair? Instead of returning the darkness of his expression, you gifted him a victorious smile, then spat to the ground hatefully. Afterwards, you turned away and began running for your life.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>You ran after the Saxons, mustering all the energy that remained on your body after all these years. As you were running, images of the past flashed through your mind to further prompt you. The future stood in front of you, illuminating, bright. You were chasing paradise- your future.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Here!”, you cried frantically, “here!”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>They could take you with them, back where they came from. You would tell them you were a Saxon, speak to them in their tongue, they would listen. You would go back home, both of you. You clutched the clothed bundle even tightly to your chest. You tripped but you picked yourself up in a fraction of a second. You kept on running, your body at the tip of exhaustion.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Help! Help me!”, you were screaming in pure agony and desperation. “Please!”, your voice cracked pitifully as you cried out in saxon, “please!”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>You could escape. <em>Escape</em>. You could live again.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>You reached a chariot full of people. The warriors inside were cheering triumphantly, delighting in their successful raid, while the women they had seized from the village were wailing in utter anguish. They were crying for being taken. You were crying to be taken.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>You extended a hand as you ran, your other hand never leaving the tight bundle in your chest.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Please!”, you cried again. This was your <em>only</em> chance to ever leave. You begged your god for mercy, for salvation.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>He finally must have heard your pleas. For someone <em>did</em> take your hand. You gasped as you were pulled up into the chariot and thrown in a tiny corner. You were instantly met with the deafening noise of crying and cheering. The chariot was so cramped that your body was being pushed against others, but you did pay any attention to that.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>You had done it. You had escaped. <em>Escape. Freedom. Life. Home.</em></p><p> </p><p> </p><p>You fell on your knees. You hugged the bundle- your beloved son, whom you would never ever let go- and joined the other women in their hysterical wailing. Only you were not wailing out of pain- not anymore. You were weeping for a feverish glee.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Farewell, now time to fly<br/>
Out of sight, out of time, away from all lies</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>The horses galloped into the woods, dragging the chariot away from Kattegat, away from the northmen and towards the sea.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>And you didn’t look back.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>IMPORTANT: Though this work contains elements of sexual harrasment, it does not romanticise it in any way nor does it explore it in depth. Sexual harrasment is a serious offence, which is never to be taken lightly. Please talk to someone if you have been subjected to such abuse or know someone who has been victim to it. Raise your voice. Be heard.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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